


In vino veritas

by Mutaforma



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Canon Era, Drunkenness, First Kiss, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-01
Updated: 2015-05-01
Packaged: 2018-03-26 16:36:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3857551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mutaforma/pseuds/Mutaforma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Numbed by the wine, Grantaire would have jumped from Notre Dame's towers, fearless. The drunkenness put red wings on his shoulders. The only type of wings that, instead of bringing you to the stars, drags you to the oblivion.<br/><i>There's something that a drunkard can't do. To lie.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	In vino veritas

**Author's Note:**

> Anna helped writing this story

_Is there something a drunkard can't do?_  
Numbed by the wine, Grantaire would have jumped from Notre Dame's towers, fearless. The drunkenness put red wings on his shoulders. The only type of wings that, instead of bringing you to the stars, drags you to the oblivion.  
And so, to collapse, to drown in his own glass.  
_What a wonderful thing!_  
For all his life, he has hoped to die drunk. Wine would have hidden his fear of death and he would have gone, like many drunkards, with a scarlett smile on his mouth. Relaxing, unaware. Maybe stumbled and fallen in the Seine, interrupted in the middle of a song torn by the drunkenness, or maybe in a brawl in an inn.  
After all, in how many ways can a drunkard die?

 _Yeah, there's something that a drunkard can't do._  
To lie.  
The Musain is empty, the meeting ended. Only Enjolars picks up his papers and his books, and Grantaire, like always at the end of the evening, picks up himself, his flesh numbed by the alcohol. With all those empty bottles, he doesn't make a good impression.  
Enjolras stares at him disapprovingly without saying anything, it would be useless.  
Grantaire laughs at his expression, rising on his trembling knees and leaning against the table next to him. “The gods who look on the misery of the world have the same expression, I'm sure of this.”  
“You don't believe in any god”  
“How could I contradict you, you always know how to answer” and noting his silence he changes the subject “So, this thing will happen.”  
“If you are talking about the revolution, it will happen, but I must ask you not to speak about it in those terms”  
Grantaire's eyes shines for wine and determination. A brief silence, then his voice talks, firmer than usually expected from a drunkard.  
“I will be with you”  
Enjolras stares at him, surprised and almost offended. “Don't you dare to mock me”  
For once, he is not mocking him. The drunkenness turns to anxiety in despair, and Grantaire throws himself at Enjolras' feet. He cries. He hugs his legs, desperate, and the wine intensifies the pain of his rejection, of this and all the previous ones, instead of let it drown and turn it into something vaguely pleasant.  
“Please, let me be with you, permit me to follow you! Make me worthy of your revolution! I will serve you faithfully! I will load your gun, I will be next to you, I'll die for you if you will need! If you ask me, I will polish your boots, I will do the most menial and degrading things, if I will think they could can make you happy!”  
_Proud. Proud was better. What a terrible choice of lexicon._  
Enjolras, in his astonishment, shakes slowly his head. “You're drunk, Grantaire”  
“I'm not drunk!” he screams from below, pushing his forehead against Apollo's legs. Tears spring from his eyes and his breath comes out in gasps. He could drown in his own tears.  
He is drunk. Completely. But this time it wasn't the wine, at least.  
“...I love you.”  
He said it so randomly that he is surprised to hear his own voice telling it. It was faint, muffled, a sound that rose from the depth of his soul and it escaped like a sigh from his lips.  
He could have imagined it. But no, Enjolras is already knelt in front of him. Grantaire's blue eyes drown in wine and tears, but he can see him clearly. How beautiful is, confused and surprised, his God. He doesn't believe in what he heard. But Grantaire doesn't believe it either.  
_Unsay! Unsay, for God's sake! Unsay, it's not difficult! You have always said the opposite of everything, logical or illogical, Grantaire. Why don't you do it not?_  
He takes his faces in his hands, desperate but not violent. Determined, despite shaking. His fingers stroke the blond curls of the most handsome warrior of Paris who decided to fight for something right and took the wrongest decision.  
And then, he kisses him.  
_Damn Enjolras and his ideals._  
Grantaire's lips taste like wine, Enjolras' taste like ambrosia. Something more intoxicating than wine. More desirable than life itself. He flies over the logical beliefs and next the illogical ones, and there he finds his love for Enjolras.  
It's not an intense kiss. It's a ridiculous sticking of mouths, almost accidentally, an awkward exchange of breaths.  
Exhausted by his own impetuosity, Grantaire collapses on Enjolras' shoulder.  
What a shamelessness, what an offense! To touch in such disrespectful way a god! If there is something right in this world, may be punished Grantaire the drunkard, who doesn't believe in anything and every breath is an offense to decency!  
He curls up like a dog on Enjolras' knees and falls asleep. And certainly it's the best place where Grantaire has ever collapsed after another night attached to the bottle.  
Enjolras' hand rested on his head is like a rose immersed in a bramble of black, capricious thorns.  
But it doesn't move away. 

In the morning, the enchantment should be gone.  
Granatire wakes up with his cheek rifled from the crease of the pants... really, Enjolras is here?  
It's true. He is reading a book, his gaze vaguely frowning. Then his eyes -so blue, oh please- lower on him. “Bonjour.”  
Grantaire doesn't answer. He just looks at him with his eyes wide open, understanding, remembering.  
What demon took me? The truth! What an awful thing! Doesn't the truth exists just to be deceived, hidden, concealed?  
Is he going to slap him? Ho, he would have done it before. He wouldn't have allowed him to sleep on his legs if he didn't want, if he was angry. He would have let him sleep on the uncomfortable floor. Instead, he is here.  
_Oh Sun, please! Do not tire yourself to abseil down one more time, because all the other nights will never be like this one that just passed! Poor me, I don't even keep the memory!_  
He wouldn't have slept, but instead have enjoyed every moment of that night, of his warmth, of his presence.  
Finally, a verbally expressible thought. “Forgive me...”  
Enjolras takes a serious gaze.  
We will pretend it never happened. No one will know. I promise.  
“It would be a honor to me to have you among the revolutionaries.”  
He says only that, his voice is steady and relaxed. Who knows if he thought about it all night.  
Those words warm his chest with joy. Grantaire wouldn't have dared to hope for more.


End file.
